The last autumn days of my 30s have been burnished-apple bright, with Swedish-blue skies and enormous, pillowy clouds. Yesterday, my mum told me that “this is exactly what the weather was like when you were born” which has a nice circularity to it. This is autumn at its fuggy, golden, toasty best.
My husband had also booked us into a lovely hotel near to where I was born and close to where we married. In fact, we almost spent our wedding night here. Again, he chose it not only because of its reputation, but because I was born here 40 years ago.
One of the things I have considered in the space I’ve had to let my mind wander since being here, is that during my 30s, during anyone’s 30s, the residue of one’s professional life can silt up around the things you love doing and who you are. I’ve found becoming a parent obliterated the person I had made myself into. Now I can feel the first shoots of who I always was emerging. Reading with Monkey-face and for myself has given me back to myself. It’s that circularity thing again.